


Dry Docking

by Crepsley



Series: AC4: Black Flag one-shots [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4481747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crepsley/pseuds/Crepsley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Edward, for once, drinks too little? He has to deal with seventy-two hammered pirates, that's what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dry Docking

There was little not to be proud of when it came to Edward’s reputation; his list of escapades was quite extensive after all, and his habit to enjoy his drink a little  _too_  much was arguably one of them. Yet, no matter how frequently he indulged his vice, there was always a sense of self-satisfaction that it had never gotten the better of him, unlike so many others he had encountered. Even after months spent at sea without so much as a drop, his hands were as steady as ever, his judgement sharp, and whatever craving he had for a tipple was easily overcome. 

Expecting no less of his crew, Edward made a point to include one important line in the _Jackdaw_ ’s articles:  _no drink when on board_. He was no fool and anticipated some resistance, so when the complaints came, he took his time to explain his decision. Time between shifts was not sufficient to properly sober up, and the pirates, most of whom had been salts long enough, knew the dangers of impaired focus aboard a ship. **  
**

The start had been difficult for the few who were heavily reliant on the bottle. They became increasingly jittery and irritable the longer they went without, which not only caused tension, but put everyone at risk. To limit any sneaky trickery, – as Edward came to experience first hand just how resourceful a drunkard hankering for booze could be – the brig in the hold was repurposed to store any and all alcohol they looted. The keys to the cells were then split equally between him, Adéwalé, and the resident cook.

With such security measures, and under constant scrutiny, the  _Jackdaw_ ’s crew was given no room to argue if they wanted to serve on the ship. Most stayed, safe in the knowledge that while they worked hard and kept a brisk pace, once anchor was dropped, they were encouraged to party just as vigorously.

Yet even with the well oiled routine, months spent plundering the West Indies without shore leave had taxed them all. The attacks on military ships proved itself a lucrative business, and while the payoff was high, the men began to grow increasingly restless. Edward couldn’t blame them, he felt it as well. As much as he loved riches, and the thrill of combat, – especially needlessly complicated strategies to flaunt his skill as captain and helmsman, like athwart the stern – he also enjoyed life when the only decision he had to make was what to idle himself with.

Needless to say, the crew were all smiles and rotten teeth when they set upon three merchant ships for the sole purpose of stocking up on alcohol – to the point where capsize was an entirely possible risk. Exhaustion forgotten, they worked as one entity and struck hard, confident that all their arduous work was close to its reward. Despite a short scuffle, there were a few injuries, one of which forced Adéwalé to rest in his bunk with a musket shot to the shoulder.  

That left Edward to write the ship’s book by himself; a bothersome activity he wished he could skip altogether. But given how he had planned to reacquaint himself with the bottle until he woke up somewhere odd, and would more than likely have a head for ten, it would prove more productive if he just got it out of the way.

With his leg bouncing impatiently under the study in his cabin, Edward attempted to wrestle through all the logs. While his letters were good and he couldn’t complain about the speed at which he read, numbers never came easily. Even back in Bristol, under Caroline’s attentive tutelage, he struggled to –

_No_. He wouldn’t allow himself to get distracted,  _again_. Especially not by those thoughts.

The sounds of merriment did not help his focus at all, so with a sigh, he reached for the pitcher filled with rum to alleviate some of his frustration. However, the plan backfired, since the taste of alcohol only fueled his restlessness further. Lines blurred the longer he stared at them, until they were merely a blotch of ink – looking as unintelligible as he felt them to be.

Edward absent-mindedly hummed along to the shanty his crew bellowed. His fingers followed the rhythm and drummed the beat, while his left hand swayed idly, his eyes captivated by the graceful flick of the quill as if it was the most interesting sight he ever beheld.

If he had to draw comparisons, even a feather amused him more than the work he had to do.

A nostalgic smile crept across his face when his attention settled on an ornate brooch amidst the collection of trinkets. Every single piece had its own story, but that specific one he reckoned was easily his favorite. The accessory once belonged a lady he ran into in Kingston, and it was love at first sight. With the jewelry, of course. What he didn’t expect was the then owner to be extremely johnny-on-the-spot, and grab him by the arm when he tried to unclip his prize. To make matters worse, she then proceeded to smack him in the face with her parasol with such force, it actually threw him off balance. In a bit of a panic, Edward instinctively reached out to grab hold of anything to regain composure – unfortunately, his hand found the front of the woman’s dress first. The sound of ripped stitches was only outdone by the shrillness of her scream, so loud it made his ears ring. Guards were called in soon after. It was quite a nice day.

“Oh, bollocks.” He sighed in exasperation at the sight of the massive ink stain he had dripped onto the paper. Thoroughly annoyed at his own short attention span when it came to things he didn’t fancy, Edward steeled his resolve and threw himself at the task. A challenge had been issued, so a challenge shall be met and conquered. At a swift pace too, he hoped. Without too many corners cut.

* * *

Once he finally emerged, the hour was late into the night and the men had somewhat quieted. Not that it would matter in the slightest. The rum he had taken inside was enough to get him pleasantly buzzed and damned well ready to join the festivities – or have one on his own, given the state the others seemed to be in.

Smirking at the night watch’s passed out forms, Edward rowed himself to shore, then eagerly set out to find his share of the drink.

“Save us a few bottles, eh?” He called out as he watched, bemused, the crew impatiently load the boats full of cargo after anchor was dropped. They agreed, of course, but there was a certain quality to their tone he didn’t like. Whatever tension the long months spent cooped up in the ship had caused was still present. Those who considered they had been worked unreasonably harder than before were yet to let go of their grievances. So, to be positive he was not only just brushed off, Edward marked a keg as his own in front of everyone to see. And in case the giant chalk cross was too inconspicuous, the clearly written “ _Kenway’s_ ” underneath would surely get the job done.

The beach was in a state. Littered with the remnants of – well, all that one can imagine six dozen men who were hammered beyond all coherent thought could leave behind. Some sights he would’ve preferred not to encounter; such as his boatswain face down and bare arse to the sky, his ample  _assets_  dangling freely.

“ _Jaysus_ …” Edward muttered and cringed at the involuntary comparison to two sizable coconuts. After a small mental note that bigger didn’t always mean better, a silent thanks was uttered. No matter how sauced he got, no matter what haystack he woke up in, his breeches had always stayed on.

However, his mood took a definite turn for the worse when he saw the fate of the barrel that was supposed to be his share. The preemptive marks had done nothing to keep it safe as it lay on its side, cut open crudely from top to bottom with an axe – if the jagged splinters of wood were any indication. With jaw clenched so hard in a rush of ire that a muscle popped, he tried his best to ignore his gut and not assume it was done on purpose. But surely not, an order had been barked, even if amicably; his tone left no doubt about that.

What did Adéwalé advise when his temper threatened to get the best of him? Count. He was supposed to count.  _Not bloody likely_ , given he had spent hours doing just that earlier. When he felt his eye twitch from the irritation, Edward took a deep breath. Fair enough, he would mention the slight when everyone had sobered up; with the amount of alcohol they had unloaded from the  _Jackdaw_ , there had to be plenty left.

Except, there wasn’t any. Not a single drop.  _It was ridiculous_. How the hell did so much rum, ale, and whiskey disappear under a few hours? It would’ve been slightly impressive lest for the anger that steadily built every time he found empty bottles or casks. The thought of being the only sober man on the island was entirely ludicrous. Not even Ade, as he was out like a light thanks to all the opium the surgeon had given him for the pain.

Edward felt like a metaphorical kettle which just reached its boiling point – only the loud whistle of steam was absent.

“God damn  _fucking_  knaves,” He snarled, but his displeasure went unnoticed in the midst of passed out pirates. “Is this my reward for believing in the best about my men?”

Minutes passed as he stood in the middle of the camp, silent as the grave, and let his eyes roam across the shapes resting on the sand. The little breather had allowed him to cool somewhat, so he would no longer act out of first passion. Instead, his anger took on a more calculative nature. When he finally spoke, it was mostly to himself.

“I know some of you jesters are thick as pigshite, and think you can play me the fool. But yours will not be the last laugh in this, I  _promise_  you that.”

Those who thought his amicable relationship with his crew made petty pranks against him acceptable would be taught a lesson. If Edward wanted to go months without shore leave, it would happen as such; the pirates could either take it, or leave it. Or perhaps even attempt to vote him out.  _Oh_ , he  _dared_  them to try.

The perfect punishment revealed itself in the form of a misplaced gunpowder keg, probably carried out by accident when they unloaded the hold. He inspected his surroundings, then assessed the island they had dropped anchor at. While barely large enough to comfortably fit everyone, it was the ideal size to execute his plan.

A slow, devious, and entirely unkind smirk crept across his lips, the sort others would’ve described as predatory. If his men were under the impression the extent of his indignation was exhausted in lax disciplinary tactics – such as tying drunken crew members to the figurehead, or making them drink a mug of everyone’s piss if they whizzed in the ballast – then they were in for quite a surprise.

* * *

The set-up had taken a couple of hours, but Edward didn’t mind. The effect would be greater after a taste of sleep. By the time he had finished, the first signs of dawn crept over the horizon.

Casually, he made his way to the head of the beach and looked over the pile of pirates, all of whom lay in various forms of disarray. With a peaceful smile, he took a deep breath to savor the morning air, then drew a pistol, aimed far right to one of the bundles he had set up at a safe distance and pulled the trigger…

The shot hit its target and sent the gunpowder to explode, shortly followed by the fireworks they had looted from a merchant on course to entertain the governor of Havana. The nearby palm trees shook from the shock-wave, and the satisfaction of the tremendous noise made his chest swell with smugness. Yet nothing could compare to the sight of the _Jackdaw_ ’s crew getting the fight of their lives, as if the Devil himself was upon them.

“All right, you scurvy bastards! Up, the lot of you!”

Once his ears had stopped ringing slightly and the dust began to settle, Edward could make out the confused shouts as everybody scrambled to their feet.

“Captain?” One meek and bleary eyed man asked after all attention fell on him. They had no idea what had happened, and it only stoked his satisfaction.

“Do you know what that is?”

“A cask, sir?”

“Aye, so is. I’m surprised you can still recognize objects given the amount you’ve guzzled.” He held a pause as he rolled the barrel closer to them. “What else?”

Silence fell over the camp as it seemed that even despite the state they were in, the dots were slowly being connected. Someone cursed which made Edward smirk.

“Excellent. We seem to be understanding each other. Two laps around the island. Get moving.”

When a few of them snorted in response, he didn’t miss a beat.

“Funny, aren’t I? Three laps, then.”

“Oi now, wait a minute! This ain’t fair. I call for a vote.”

“We ain’t putting none to the vote. You either get moving or we’ll see if I can remember where else I have hidden more barrels.”

Edward pulled two loaded pistols from his baldric and aimed, one at the center of the camp, the other a little further down between the trees.

“He’s bluffing!”

With a nonchalant shrug, he fired at the one a distance away and the pirates cowered at the explosion. The sky lit up with different colors as the fireworks once again followed suit, but some whizzed along close to the ground, which sent men jumping out of the way.

“Last time, get moving or I’ll shoot the final one too. That one’s a  _bit_  close for comfort, I reckon.”

Begrudgingly, but entirely certain he’d live up to the threat, the crew banded together into a line and began their jog – in the loosest possible sense of the word – around the isle. Some fell over shortly into it, others had to stop to retch, but most kept the pace as best as they could given the circumstances.

Edward followed along with a banana in hand and shamelessly enjoyed the scene. Running had always been a pastime he indulged in regularly and had come to excel at. The distance they set out to do was one he could easily complete, even at a sprint.

“Alright, Jack. Sing!” After a second though, he decided not to allow his rigger to pick the song and added, “Drunken Sailor!”

“ _Weigh hay and up she rises…_ ” The usually lively shanty now sounded closer to a funeral song, half-groaned, rather than sung, in pained and whiny voices. The verse was cut short when someone attempted to get himself carried, which nearly ended in a brawl. Once the dispute was settled, they continued on as a mass of men who looked like they’d rather have the ocean swallow them whole.

“C’mon, lads! With feeling!” Edward hollered, altogether too jovial compared to the rest. Despite the initial groan, they obeyed and tried harder. Yet even their best efforts were pitiful, which only made the show more enjoyable.

After over an hour of torture, the men completed their punishment and flopped down onto the sand, looking haggard. Edward, on the other hand, had barely broken a sweat and stood proudly in their midst to admire his work with a satisfied smirk. Alas, not nearly as good as a drink would’ve been, but better than nothing.

“Well done. Wasn’t that hard now, was it?” His expression grew more gratified at their reaction, but decided to deliver the final blow anyway. Let them never forget what happens when they pull petty pranks of their Captain. “Let’s collect your reward, then.”

The last barrel caught them completely off-guard, as they perked up for a moment at the mention of a prize. There was a silver lining, they were not wrong. Except it wasn’t for them.

With a not-so-subtle strut, Edward headed back to the  _Jackdaw_  to deal with the night watch, who had been stuck on the ship and couldn’t join the others in their exercise. It would’ve been unfair if they were left out of the fun.


End file.
